No Sanctuary

3

After a small, but awkward pause, Martin Davis cleared his throat and leaned toward Madeleine. “Do you think she needs to see us looking wounded and fearful?”

“Oh, no.” Embarrassed that they must see her as an ungrateful bitch, Bay caved in. “I’ll come. I mean, thank you…for the invitation. For everything. Really.”

With a satisfied nod, her champion directed her toward the door. Bay thanked Madeleine Ridgeway again and let the shy Lulu show her the rest of the way out.

As promised, Elvin was waiting. The process of being handed off from person to person and passing through doorways triggered another unpleasant sensation, one she quickly reasoned away. There was no comparing this to prison, especially when she eyed the sprig of mint dangling from Elvin’s mouth.

A scan of the landscape had her gaze settling on the thigh-high brick flower box on the far side of the portico. Amid the sea of red and white geraniums, she spotted lavender, parsley, dill and basil. So Madeleine didn’t waste space any more than she did time or contacts. For a second, Bay wished the sprig was a cigarette so she could bum one. From someone who’d never taken up the habit to begin with, that spoke fathoms.

His hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets, Elvin rocked back on his heels and grinned. “You’re looking like you did a few test rounds with a champ.”

Not willing to admit how right he was, Bay asked, “I guess you know where to go?”

“Spent virtually every waking hour there for the last two months.”

As he tossed away the wilting herb and headed for the driver’s side, his cheerful reply triggered a nagging something in Bay’s overtaxed, underfed brain. Then it clicked. “I only heard of the possibility of my release a few weeks ago,” she said from the back seat. She slammed shut the passenger door. “Even then I wasn’t certain it was a sure thing.”

Elvin shrugged as he keyed the engine. “So it felt shorter to you. I got through it by practicing my music. Speaking of—” he turned on the radio to another gospel station “—if you don’t mind, I need to listen. I’m trying to get these folks to consider my stuff.”

A frustrated artist, Bay mused, studying the back of his head. She noted that while his hair was similar in color to Pastor Davis’s, it lacked the neat cut and styling. At best Elvin’s shaggy mane seemed to be combed by his stubby fingers. Not great hands for a musician, Bay surmised. Nervous, too. They were always active, like his hazel eyes. “Go figure,” she murmured.

“What’s that?”

“I suppose you can’t study too much.”

With a nod, Elvin sped back to the Loop and turned left, this time passing the street that led into town and Bay’s old shop. Ignoring the pang of yearning, she watched as they continued on, until they reached the turnoff for Pounds Field. For a regional airport, the area retained its rural atmosphere, the traffic lighter than in town.

About a mile farther, past a nursery, a produce stand and a ballpark, Elvin made another left turn into a wooded property.

Bay had been browsing through the contents of the envelope and had already read that the land consisted of one-point-three acres, narrow but long, meaning limited highway frontage. As far as she was concerned, any frontage made the gift a gold mine.

Her first glimpse of the tin building that was to be her shop had her agreeing with Madeleine’s appraisal—the decrepit shack needed work, new doors to start and sturdy locks, particularly once she started buying equipment and material stock. In contrast, the house was a haven, adorable as a dollhouse, freshly painted a cheery yellow with white trim and adorned with lacy iron supports that held up the white awning. Parked under the connecting carport weighed by an opulent trumpet vine was a black Chevy truck.

“That was mine,” Elvin said. “Mrs. R. gave me one of the newer estate trucks in trade for getting the place in shape on time. But there’s plenty more miles in that sweet thing.”

Elvin’s tone warned that he still saw his slightly worn baby as a Cadillac among trucks. “I see. Well, I’ll take good care of her, thank you.” Forewarned, Bay would be prepared for impromptu under-the-hood checks and see that the ashtray and floorboard stayed as tidy as her profession allowed.

“All righty…so the phone and lights are working in there and you’ve got water. You’ll have to transfer things over in your name, of course.”

“I’ll get to it right away.”

“Mrs. R. had me stock the kitchen and whatnot. Do you need me to come in with you and show you around?”

Preoccupied with shoving papers back into the envelope, Bay belatedly met his gaze in the rearview mirror. Maybe it was the play of light or her over-taxed nerves, but in that instant she saw something in Elvin Capps’s face that had the hairs on her arms lifting.

“Earth to blondie…? Hey, you having an out-of-body experience or something? I asked—”

“No.”

“Criminy. Sue me for doing my job.”

As she felt her face heat, Bay ducked her head, wishing for once that she had long hair to hide behind. “What I mean is, you’ve done so much already. I think I can manage from here.” She scrambled out of the car convinced he must think her certifiable. It would serve her right if he rushed back to his employer to report what a bad decision she’d made.

Elvin lowered the front passenger window and leaned over to peer up at her. “You’ve got my number in that stuff. Use it. It’s my job.”

He cut a sharp three-point turn, and Bay finally relaxed as he broke into yet another song. Butler, Butler, she thought. If the harmless, starstruck Elvin Capps could spook her, how did she hope to function around everyone else?

The Town Car eased out into the road and rolled out of sight. Exhaling, Bay rubbed at the house key she’d all but imprinted into her palm and headed inside. She took her time unlocking the front door, savoring the solid feel of the dead bolt. She was less pleased with all the glass. What was the point of locks if all you had to do was chuck a rock to get in?

Her paranoia passed as she checked out the inside. True to his word, Elvin had been working hard. Though small and probably a good forty years old, the place was spotless and as appealing as it looked from the outside. The cloud nine, listen-for-angel-harps white color scheme might be too perky for her, but she could overlook that for the time being. It was a hundred times better than where she’d been.

So much room…

Wandering from the kitchen-dinette area through the rest of the house, she opened cabinets and closets, finding that while the majority of the house remained unfurnished, Elvin had made sure she had the essentials—a broom here, an extra set of sheets and a few towels there. The closet in the bedroom with the queen-size bed that took up most of the room had her staring outright. Clothes, too?

On impulse Bay reached for the top drawer on the chest beside the closet and found everything from underwear to cotton socks, unnerving even though none of it was what anyone would call provocative. Seeing it was the correct size—she checked the A-cup bras and panty hose—she told herself this had to be Madeleine’s handiwork.

She returned to the closet and noted more details—size six jeans, small T-shirts, the jogging shoes were a size seven…the powder-blue silk shift with matching three-inch pumps had her staring. Could she make it out of the house without breaking her neck, let alone navigate a church parking lot?

Although disconcerted that someone knew her body so well, the urge to rid herself of any physical link to Gatesville prompted Bay into stripping. Leaving her things where they fell, she went straight into the bathroom and took her first private shower since her arrest. The water smelled of chlorine, but the luscious peach-scented shower gel offset that. She used a quarter bottle of the fragrant goop repeatedly scrubbing her entire body until her blood hummed and her pale skin glistened.

The fluffy, white towel she wrapped herself in afterward was another first. Best not to get too fond of such luxury, she told herself. As soon as she was back to wrestling with stubborn engines and equally greasy metal, these towels would be relegated to the back of the closet and she’d be drying off in cheapo navy blue or black towels that would become shop rags soon enough.

Dry, she slipped into new panties, skipped the bra, and dragged on a bright-red T-shirt and jeans, then stood barefoot before the dresser mirror to stare at the skinny, spike-haired stranger before her. Was this what thirty-two looked like out there in the free world? Her gaze dropped to the mascara and lipstick set out on the dresser and she made a face. So she’d never been what her father and the good ol’ boy-types called “a show pony”; she couldn’t let that worry her now. Of all the things on her agenda, men and romance ranked last and off the list.

Scooping up her release clothes, Bay returned to the kitchen and dropped everything, including the loafers, into the plastic trash container by the door. Wasteful as that was, she needed to be physically separated from things that reminded her of prison. Then, to get her mind off what she had done, she started a serious inspection of cabinets and drawers, the pantry. The small four-pack of wine in the refrigerator startled her. Chardonnay.

“Your idea, Elvin?”

It would seem the church’s position on drinking was more lenient than the Baptists’ but in this instance bad judgment regardless. It would be too easy for her to fall into bad habits while in this early, vulnerable stage. About to close the door, she changed her mind, took out the carton and deposited it on top of the rejected clothing. Retracing her steps, she took a bottle of chilled vegetable juice out of the fridge and poured herself a glass.

Settling at the butcher-block dinette table, she tucked her legs into a lotus position and looked around the room and finally beyond the slats of the miniblinds, out to where the lush woods bordered the narrow yard.

Mine.

She still couldn’t believe it. As her eyes began to burn and her throat ached, she raised her glass. “Glenn…I don’t understand any of this, but if you can hear me, I haven’t forgotten, not you or the promise I made.”

The heavens didn’t smile with a rainbow of light, no chair fell over from some invisible hand. About to take a sip of her juice, the phone rang. Wincing as she clicked the glass against her teeth, Bay set it down and stared at the white wall unit by the counter as though it were a prison alarm bell. What now? Only Madeleine knew her number, and she should be in her meeting. Elvin, she decided, pushing herself off the chair. He probably forgot to explain something he thinks is critical. She didn’t want to talk to him or anyone else today; however, she figured that if the call went unanswered, Madeleine’s watchdog might be hammering at the door within minutes.

Bay snatched up the receiver on the fifth ring. “Hello?”

No one replied.

“One more chance, and then you get to talk to dead air. Hello!”

Bay heard enough background sound to tell her that someone was there; nevertheless, the caller remained silent. Frowning, she waited several more seconds, then, just as she was about to hang up, the caller did.

Somebody figured out they dialed the wrong number, she told herself. Her first call as a free woman and it’s a mistake. Grateful that at least they hadn’t tried to sell her something, she settled back in her chair.

The sun remained bright, the breeze playful as it turned the trees bordering the property into a shimmering sea of emeralds, and yet her isolation suddenly mattered. Those patches of dense shadows for instance…was something or someone moving around out there?

As her cozy oasis changed before her eyes, Bay’s imagination cranked into overdrive. What if the call hadn’t been a wrong number? People knew she was out of prison. Madeleine had said so, and had also admitted it was possible that not everyone agreed with the court’s decision just as Bay believed for her own reasons that the Tarpley story was a lie. And now that she thought about it, Bay believed it had been traffic sounds she’d heard. The caller could be on a cell phone standing in her very woods watching her.

She should have asked Madeleine more questions, found out exactly what the press knew and were saying about her, asked Elvin to stop for a paper. Considering the increased craziness going on in the world, she could be shot as she sat here, and it would be a day or more before Elvin or Madeleine found her.

With her heart beginning to pound like a full-fledged panic attack, Bay grabbed the blind’s wand to shut out the view, then she flew to the door to close that one, and to test the dead bolt. It wasn’t enough and, as she had on her first few nights at Gatesville, she withdrew to the most hidden corner of the room and curled into a tight ball in an attempt to make herself invisible.

“You’re okay. You’re okay,” she recited pressing her forehead against her raised knees. She just needed to give herself some time.

But minutes stretched into hours and darkness fell and, still, Bay couldn’t bring herself to move.

4

Opening her eyes to red numbers inches from her face was a shock. Once 4:00 registered, Bay went on to wonder how anything electronic, let alone something with a cord, had gotten into her cell. Belatedly, music drew her attention—and it wasn’t coming from the clock. In prison you learned to numb yourself to the nonstop noise, the shouting and screams, but music didn’t fit, either.

Rising up on her elbow, she saw subtle shifts of light on the door. As the thick fog dulling her senses receded, she made the connections—a door, not steel bars, sounds from a TV, not inmates and guards. This wasn’t prison.

The plush, queen-size bed must have seduced her, once she’d given up her corner in the kitchen and decided she could risk going to bed. She remembered turning on the TV for background noise and supposed an experienced burglar could have cleaned out the place while she’d slept. It was her deepest sleep in over six years, but now thirst and hunger drove her out of bed.

Moving through the house like a guest, she turned on the stove hood light in the kitchen and went next for a bottle of water from the refrigerator. She drank half before putting on water for coffee. Once she located the jar of instant and a spoon, she chose a thick mug from the two in the open cupboard and measured out a heaping serving of granules. Significant caffeine was a must regardless of where she slept or how little. She could survive not smoking and had the discipline to monitor her drinking, but Java was her weakness. She liked the flavor in ice cream and in candy. If she could find that someone had invented a coffee-scented bath gel, she could be content.

From the TV came the sound of sirens. Bay hit her knee on the side table as she grappled for the remote and flipped the channel. She had to flip often, soon discovering how much noise, bloodletting and sex was on at night. When she came upon an old, familiar Western, she left it there and returned to the kitchen to pour the boiling water. A movie buff from childhood—once she understood she was responsible for her own entertainment, as she was her education—she remembered being enthralled by the on-screen chemistry between Gregory Peck and Anne Baxter. Unfortunately, time and experience had worked like thirty-six-grit sandpaper on her romantic ideals. As she watched the passion grow between the two lead characters, she could only see the potential for problems down the road…reality making any commitment between them one long conflict.

“Nobody is going to call me to reinvent the wheel,” she said stirring her coffee.

Although she left on the set, she carried her mug to the dinette window where she peered through the blinds as she had earlier. Encouraged by how the security lights lit the property, Bay unlocked the door and settled into a plastic chair under the covered patio. Out on the highway traffic was virtually nonexistent; a freight truck rumbled by as she took her first sip of her brew, and after about a minute a car passed going in the opposite direction. Otherwise, sound effects were provided by night critters mostly from the creek that Bay guessed had to be to her right somewhere in the thickest section of woods. The thought of what went along with streams and dense vegetation had her tucking her feet beneath her. It was a nice night, though, even if city lights did obliterate star viewing.

Therein was a good message, she decided. There was nothing out here to dream over unless you invent it. Encouraged, she returned inside to find a pad and pencil and proceeded to list everything required to run a decent welding shop, and to stock it with ample supplies for the average walk-in business.

Before she knew it, the eastern sky went from indigo to fuchsia. Eager to see what Elvin had accomplished out in the shop, she washed up, slipped on sneakers and, with a third mug of coffee in hand, set off.

A foul smell greeted her as she slid open the shop’s door, the mix of humidity, old oil, dead rodents and who knew what else. But once she turned on the fluorescent lights, all Bay saw was the welding machine. It stood precisely in the position that Glenn’s machine had stood the night he was killed.

She turned away from the troubling coincidence and studied the rest of the shop. Nothing else triggered the same revulsion in her, not the bottles of argon, oxygen and acetylene that stood just inside the door, probably where the delivery truck had left them, and it was simple practicality for the leads to be on the worktable. That table stood six-by-ten feet, larger than the ones they’d used in the old shop, and the red gang box, every bit her height, was a far more modern model than she could afford before.

As she grew more relaxed, she inspected the rest of the building. On the far side in a portable rack lay a modest inventory of stainless sheet metal; beside that was another rack with pipe, a fair quantity. Bay knew it was for Madeleine’s gate.

She glanced back at the welder and decided it was an accident, that’s all. Where else would Elvin put the thing?

Energized, she opened the shop doors the rest of the way, snatching up the notepad and pencil from the scarred desk that would serve as her office and began a more serious test of her memory of the design.

It was nearing noon before she stopped working. By then she was soaked with sweat and starving, and yet she felt better than she had in years. Not only did she have the initial cuts for the gate completed, she’d had her first walk-in customer, a man desperate to repair a broken headache rack on his truck. The small job earned her a fast seventy bucks—to be immediately spent on renewing her driver’s license and buying paint for a sign, she decided. Pleased, she locked up and returned to the house.

After devouring a turkey sandwich and a glass of milk, she showered and tugged on clean jeans and a white T-shirt, this time over a bra. Then she drove into town to get her license renewed.

By the time she reached the DMV some of her anxiety returned. She fully expected them to know her on sight, but having her prison record lingering on their computers would be as bad. To her surprise and relief, though, the clerk reacted like someone who didn’t watch TV, let alone subscribe to a newspaper, and when she brought up Bay’s file on the monitor, the woman’s expression remained passive.